


To Find One's Faith

by Saringold



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Basically all of my ideas and headcanons for how Faith magic works, Canon Compliant, Crisis of Faith, Friends to Lovers, How Faith Magic Works: The Fic, If you're interested in that sort of thing, Less Than Ideal Parent-Child Relationships, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saringold/pseuds/Saringold
Summary: Linhardt von Hevring has always struggled with the concept of Faith.(Or: The Author's Guide on How Faith Works and Why)
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. The Performance of the Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Here is the first chapter in a new series that I'm working on! If you like it, please leave a kudo or comment, or check out my other work; reading them makes my day~! 
> 
> This fic in particular is dedicated to my gorgeous and lovely partner, MariaColette (MariettaRC), who convinced me this was an idea worth writing about.

Anyone in Enbarr could tell you that the Cathedral of Seiros was an architectural marvel and a cultural and historical landmark of Enbarr. Stained glass windows depicting the Four Saints and Saint Seiros herself lined the walls, beautiful chandeliers and candelabras washing the glorious hall in a warm, welcoming light in contrast with the cold, dense stone that the building itself was constructed of. Vaulted ceilings lent themselves well to the room’s acoustics, the very air wishing to carry the sounds of devotion straight to the parishioners’ ears. Lit braziers placed throughout the cathedral burned incense, a smell akin to Seiros Tea wafting throughout. In the very back, a towering stained glass window depicted Saint Seiros with her arms outstretched and face in a serene and peaceful smile, as if to welcome all who entered into her loving embrace. Along the sides were pews for the choir, singing along as Bishop Herras, who presided over the cathedral, directed them all in glorious hymns to the Goddess. The cathedral itself was generally open to the public at all times for those wishing to leave prayers or attend lectures given by the clergy, but at this day and hour, the grand oaken doors had been shut tight to the outside, the cathedral becoming a bastion of prayer for the nobility. From a young age, the nobles of Adrestia had been taught that by demonstrating their own devotion to the Goddess and learning her laws, they could guide their people well and inspire them to live spiritually and morally fulfilling lives. 

At six years old, Linhardt von Hevring hated everything about it.

The church pews were hard and uncomfortable, his father had informed him that if he were to fall asleep again he could expect no dinner this evening, the incense irritated his nose, and the only good thing about being forced to sit here quietly for three hours was that he wasn’t sitting close enough to any of the other noble children to be constantly and obnoxiously distracted. The von Hevring family was in the third row from the front on the left, a testament to their comfortable status as devout patrons of the church and humble servants of the Empire, with only the Prime Minister’s family and the Emperor’s family in front of them. From where he was sitting, Linhardt could see the shiny orange locks of Ferdinand von Aegir, the prime minister’s (legitimate) heir, as he pressed his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut with all of the fervor that a 7 year old could muster. Linhardt risked a quiet chuckle; with his face like that, he looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. The heavy hand that swiftly landed on his shoulder, however, was proof that he hadn’t been quiet enough as he looked up to meet his father’s disapproving glower. Nothing more needed to be said; the silent command of behave yourself was communicated loud and clear, and Linhardt slumped in his seat, completely tuning out everything the bishop was saying. As they tended to do when left to their own devices, his thoughts started to wander; while perhaps not quite free in body, at least his thoughts were less fettered, flitting about as they liked within the confines of his mind. Images of saints and histories and the story about Saint Cethleann’s love of fish began to surface, and within moments, he was gone, sinking beneath a sea of tranquility.

After some indeterminable amount of time had passed, Linhardt slowly returned to awareness thanks to his mother gently shaking his shoulder. “Come along, Linhardt,” she said quietly, taking his hand and leading him out into the aisle. It seemed the mass was already over, and as the nobility began to slowly file out, many of them taking the opportunity to make small talk, his father had stopped to talk to the bishop. Linhardt and his mother stood a respectful distance away, waiting for them to finish, when Count Hevring turned to the two of them.

“Linhardt. Come here.”

Linhardt swallowed the lump in his throat and walked over to the two. He stood next to his father, trying not to slouch, as Count Hevring’s large hand once again occupied his shoulder. “Father. Bishop Herras.”

Bishop Herras was tall, taller than even his father, and as Linhardt looked up to meet his gaze, he was sure that his neck was going to go stiff from looking up. He was dressed in typical church robes but wore a somewhat elaborate headpiece that signified his status as a bishop not of any church, but of this cathedral in particular. In Linhardt’s opinion, it made his forehead look like the size of a dinner plate. The bishop smiled down at him, in that overly saccharine way adults did when they really didn’t know how to (or want to) talk to children. Linhardt was well familiar with this expression, a mainstay on the faces of his father’s staff. “Ah, young Linhardt. Your father tells me that you are to begin your formal studies on Faith soon.”

Linhardt nodded; if he was polite and didn’t say much, this should be over with quickly. “Yes, Bishop.”

“And you’ve already been tested as to the validity of your crest?”

“Yes, Bishop.”

“Wonderful. After all, it is from the Goddess that both crests and Faith magic itself were bestowed, and Faith is a magic born of belief. Naturally, this means that to have strong Faith, one must believe in the Goddess. Do you believe in the Goddess, Linhardt?” 

“I don’t know.”

All of the chatter echoing throughout the cathedral screeched to a halt, the three little words reverberating throughout the air as effective as any Silence. Linhardt’s father was giving him a look he’d never seen before, eyes wide and mouth agape. Oh. He had said the wrong thing again, hadn’t he.

Bishop Herras was the first to recover, clearing his throat and putting on that too-sweet smile again. This time, however, there was an edge to it, as if he were keeping anger at bay by the force of that smile alone, and the rest of the nobles were still quiet, although murmurs began to break out among the crowd. “Is that so. And why don’t you know?”

Linhardt shrugged, having decided that if things had progressed this far, he may as well state what he was really thinking. “Nobody alive has ever seen her, and even if she does live on the Blue Sea Star, why can’t she come here and walk among us if she’s so powerful? Why can’t she show modern people proof that she’s here? Why don’t we know what she really looks like? What can she do from all the way up there? And if she is real… and she is kind… why do bad things happen to good people? It’s not that I don’t want to believe, but--” 

“That’s quite enough!” The grip on his shoulder tightened, and Linhardt’s gaze snapped away from the bishop and back to his father. His jaw was clenched, and from the look in his eye, he wasn’t just angry, he was embarrassed-- a far worse emotion to deal with when on the receiving end of his wrath. The tittering around them grew louder as he not-so-gently nudged Linhardt in the direction of Lady Hevring. “Go to your mother. We will discuss this at home.”

“B-”

“At home, Linhardt!”

“...Yes, father.”

He quietly walked over to his mother, who without another word locked his hand in an iron grasp and strode out of the cathedral, Linhardt almost running to keep up. As he gave a last, fleeting glance behind him, he could see his father apologizing to the apoplectic bishop, hear the nobles gossiping about “such a strange little boy that the Hevrings have,” and smell the lingering scent of incense as it started to waft away with the wind.

Of everything he had experienced that day, it was those sensations that had felt the most real.

\-------------------------

They returned to the Hevring estate in silence. Linhardt sat sandwiched between his mother and father, sitting still and trying his utmost not to fall asleep. His father disapproved of such behavior (although he mostly allowed it when nobody else was around) but in this case, it would be best not to make him any more angry. He dug his fingernails into his palm, staving off another wave of sleepiness, and if his parents noticed, they did not say a word.

The carriage finally pulled up to the house, and Linhardt was guided into his father’s spacious office. Bookshelves lined the east wall, papers stuffed into the spaces between the books and the tops of each space. A large map of Hevring was mounted on the west wall, beautifully detailed and meticulously updated each year, displaying all of the details of the territory including population, farmlands, typical weather patterns, and the like. There was also a large fireplace with comfortable chairs and a table in front, although today it was unlit, sitting as cold and ashy as the rest of the office. On the same wall as the doorway were portraits of previous heads of the house, the von Hevring family proudly displaying their lineage of similar expressions of stern, controlled faces. Across from the door was naught but a wall of windows, from which one had an unparalleled view of the estate’s gardens. Linhardt was led to one of the two chairs across from the imposingly large oaken desk in the center of the office, and was bid to take a seat as his father moved to sit behind it. “You may leave,” he said to his wife, who gave a small nod and closed the door behind her, leaving the room in silence.

Linhardt stared at his knees, fidgeting in the chair until Count Hevring cleared his throat. “Look at me.” Linhardt’s gaze slowly rose to meet the Count’s stern look. “Do you know why we need to have this talk?”

“...Because I messed up.”

Count Hevring sighed. “You did. I feel that while it was not an intentional slip on your part, it is a lesson that you are now old enough to be expected to learn. I had hoped to avoid something like this, but now that it has, I must take responsibility for it. I have smoothed over relations with the bishop thanks to a rather hefty donation, and the other nobles have been adequately placated, but in order to avoid such incidents in the future, I shall take it upon myself to instruct you in this matter.”

Linhardt just nodded. Count Hevring did not like being interrupted. 

“You see Linhardt, being a noble is about playing a certain role, shall we say. Maintaining a particular image. Part of that image is maintaining our devotional duties to the church and the Goddess while still navigating all of the social expectations that come with being a noble. One of those duties is that personal feelings aside, a noble must always say or appear to believe in the Goddess.”

He saw the disbelieving look on Linhardt’s face and began to elaborate. “It is not for our own sake, my son. It is for the sake of the common people who place their trust in us and the church to guard and to guide them. If believing in the Goddess and the teachings of the church is what brings them fulfillment and allows them to be productive, healthy contributors to their families, their towns, and the Empire, then that is what we must do as well. A noble who goes against the will of his people is a noble who will soon be replaced, by one method or another.”

Count Hevring stood and walked over toward the windows, looking over the gardens. Linhardt knew better than to get up and join him. 

“For the nobles, it is to show that they are all equal in the eyes of the Goddess, and that they too seek guidance on how to rule wisely and well, and be their best selves. However, it is also an opportunity to socialize, to inquire as to what one’s peers are doing; both of those also contribute to image. You will come to one day understand just how deep of a hold the church has in the hearts of the people, Linhardt, commoners and nobles alike. But a noble who fails to maintain their image runs the risk of harming not only their house, but their territory, and all of those who inhabit it.”

After a moment of silence, Linhardt spoke. “So… being a noble means that sometimes, you have to lie?”

A pause, followed by a sigh.

“Yes. But if one must lie, it is a lie made in the name of the greater good.”

Linhardt looked at his knees again, a strange sadness welling up within him. “I see…” He tucked that thought away for later, not wishing to appear morose in front of the Count. 

Count Hevring took a breath; it was time to hammer this lesson into Linhardt’s memory. “This is why I expect you to act like a noble. It is not for our sake alone, but everyone’s: the people of Hevring, the other noble families, and the continued prosperity and order of the Empire itself. I expect that from now on, you will not do or say anything that might tarnish our name or image. Fulfill your role well, Linhardt, and you will lead a happy, healthy, and productive life; that is the way it has been and the way it will be.”

He looked down at Linhardt to find him nodding up at him solemnly, seemingly following along. Good. He seemed to understand. Count Hevring gave Linhardt a pat on the head. “Run along to the kitchens, now, and get something to eat. Remember what we have spoken about, and do not forget: your studies in Faith begin tomorrow.” 

Linhardt nodded once again, and gave a little bow. “Yes, Father. Thank you for the insight.” With that, he headed over to the door, leaving quietly and closing it behind him. Count Hevring once again took a seat at his desk, letting out a sigh. His boy was too young to be asking such questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow my writing [twitter!](https://twitter.com/Saringold_)


	2. To Start Down the Path of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hevrings discuss the day's events over breakfast, Linhardt and Count Hevring have a moment of bonding, and the Count and Countess discuss the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with me regarding updates! I have so many headcanons about how faith works in this game; it's not even funny. Special shoutout to Sokkusu for finishing my Casphardt server crossword, and a very happy birthday to chromspouse! <3 <3 <3
> 
> (If you liked the chapter, please consider leaving a comment or kudo, and/or check out my other fics!)

Monday morning found the Hevring family sitting at the opulent table in the mansion’s dining room, enjoying breakfast. The dining room was all tasteful white columns and an elegant marble floor, with light blue walls and thin sheer curtains pulled back to reveal several large windows on the east wall, admitting plenty of natural light into the room. There were several pieces of art and decorative plates adorning the walls, as well as carefully dusted displays of fine porcelain pieces, and the Crest of Cethleann, and by extension the symbol of House Hevring, was prominently displayed on several large wall banners that hung down from the ceiling. Sturdy oak chairs complimented the antique oaken table, artistically etched with the Crest of Cethleann, fish, and mountains, that the Hevrings used for their daily affairs, and it could be expanded to accommodate more guests if there was a need for it. At each end of the table sat Count and Countess Hevring, with Linhardt between them, and the table was covered in a mouthwatering array of delectable smoked meats, delicately iced sweet buns, the freshest eggs prepared at least seven different ways, and several other delicious dishes served piping hot and cooked with the utmost care. 

Count Hevring, for his part, was reading the morning reports. Every day, his staff brought him reports related to the Empire’s finances, judicial system, and other various departments under his purview, and each morning, he got up with the sun to read and respond to as many as he could before he took the remaining ones to breakfast. Even now, he was doing just that, the empty silence filled only by the scrape of cutlery and the willfully ignored discomfort.

Linhardt had already eaten his fill; he had never had much of an appetite, and the events of the day before still seemed to weigh on his soul. The very concept of image being more important than truth nagged at him; his parents had always encouraged him to tell them the truth as lying was “sinful,” to “be a good child,” and he’d taken that to heart, even to the point of offense in some cases. He’d lived his life according to the guidance and wishes of his parents, but now… now what was he supposed to believe? How was he expected to tell the truth and live a lie at the same time? He picked at his eggs with his fork, picking them up only to let the golden yolk run down like a stream onto the plate, but the disapproving “ahem” from his mother convinced him that setting down his fork and taking a sip of his freshly brewed angelica tea was a better idea. (He had known better than to attempt bringing a book to the table. Despite his effort, his mother had quite swiftly put a stop to that, although Linhardt couldn’t see how it was much different from his father ignoring them in favor of poring over reports. Still, the lack of dessert that evening had firmly dissuaded him from asking such a question again.)

Count Hevring had been reading them quietly throughout their meal, every so often absentmindedly bringing up a morsel of food to his mouth, and with his second cup of Almyran pine needle tea in hand and a clean plate, he set the last report down, signed it, and gestured for a clerk to take the whole pile of papers away. Once the area before him was clear of both papers and plates, the Count leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and interlinking his gloved fingers. “Linhardt.”

Linhardt swallowed his mouthful of tea and looked over at his father, meeting his gaze. Count Hevring did not like it when Linhardt failed to meet his gaze. “Yes, Father?” 

“As we discussed yesterday, your studies in Faith will begin today. I have made time for you in my schedule from the noonday bells until the second bell, and your mother has already made arrangements with the tutors. Do not be late.”

With that, Count Hevring stood, taking his tea with him, and left the dining room, presumably on his way back to his office. Linhardt’s mother stood as well, nodding at the servants to begin clearing the table. “Do not let this food go to waste.”

The maid in charge of the morning’s service gave a small smile and a bow. “We shall not, Countess Hevring.”

“Good. Come along, Linhardt. It is time for your history lessons, followed by your mathematics studies, and after that, it will be time for you to meet with your father. Afterward, we will have our daily luncheon, and then you will have your violin practice, followed by a short break and then your etiquette lessons.”

Linhardt nodded in response as he got up from the table, bringing his tea with him. How wonderful; even listening to that schedule was exhausting, and from the sound of it, a visit to the library was completely out of the question. He walked over to the Countess, carefully balancing his tea, and she placed a hand on his back, guiding him back to his chambers. With any luck, he thought, he could find an opportunity to convince a maid to distract one of his tutors so that he could at least get a chance at a nap.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning’s lessons passed by uneventfully enough, and soon, it was time for Linhardt’s appointment with his father. This time, the head maid herself escorted him, and to his surprise, she led him out to the gardens, taking him through the rows of white roses and lovingly tended forget-me-nots out to a more tranquil and private area, past where casual visitors were invited. The head maid finally came to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate, and rang a small brass bell located to the side. After a moment, Count Hevring appeared at the gate, allowing Linhardt entry as the head maid bowed and walked away. Once she left, the Count locked the gate and began to walk, Linhardt following obediently behind him. Linhardt had never been this far into the Hevring gardens, and he looked around, wide-eyed, as the blooming flowers and pruned hedges gave way to small pools filled with water lilies and lotus plants. Underneath the broad leaves, Linhardt spied Teutates Herring, imported from Lake Teutates, in one of the pools, as well as a few Carassius swimming about in another. Unsurprisingly, they seemed to be in perfect health; both were known to be sacred to Saint Cethleann, and to use anything less than the most healthy, perfect fish when performing a ritual for the family’s patron saint would be nothing short of blasphemous. 

They continued to walk until they reached a small grassy area with some comfortable-looking outdoor furniture and a lovely view of the sky, a sight rarely seen in Enbarr. As Linhardt looked around, he marveled at what a wonderful place for a nap this would be; peaceful, secluded, and safe. He would be sure to remember the path. 

His father gestured for Linhardt to take a seat, and he did so, carefully folding his hands in front of him and waiting for further directions as his father took a seat opposite him. “Now, Linhardt,” his father began, “I have brought you here in order to help you try to manifest your Faith magic.”

Linhardt’s brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but his father held up a hand and his mouth closed. The Count stood, and paced toward a nearby tree, laden with small white flowers. “You see, Linhardt, faith is a magic based in the concept of _belief._ For most, it is the Goddess and the Saints who are the source of that belief. Belief, and by extension Faith, refers to what cannot necessarily be seen, something greater than oneself, and just because it is not something _tangible_ \--that is, able to be seen, touched, tasted, heard, or smelt with our physical senses--does not mean that it does not exist.” He turned to look at Linhardt, pacing back to where he still sat. “Do you follow?”

Linhardt blinked, then looked away, contemplating the question. “I… don’t know.” His father nodded, as though expecting this. “Many do not, especially not when they are as young as you are. This is why many of those who teach Faith magic start with the Goddess, as she is, generally speaking, greater than ourselves yet still accessible to children. However... “ The Count paused his steps for a moment, and sighed. “You may have wondered why I did not bring you to our family chapel. If you were any other child of this family, I would, but in your case, I fear that this would not help you. You see, my son, I feel that you have already begun to _doubt._ You doubt the Goddess’s existence, and unless you find your way to Her as you grow older, She will not be a strong source of belief for you.”

The Count continued to walk, and Linhardt held his gaze dutifully. “However,” the Count continued, “I believe that I know what will.” He came to a stop in front of his son, crouching down before him. “Linhardt. Your mother and I have taken great pains to raise you wisely and well, and your progress has pleased both of us.” Linhardt’s eyes widened; Father almost _never_ praised him, even when he did his very best at his studies, so to hear him say such a thing was a memory that Linhardt was sure he would cherish forever. “As such, I wish to know: do you believe in _us,_ your parents? And not as in whether or not we exist, because we obviously do, but rather our teachings, our dreams, our hopes and wishes, our desire to see you grow into the capable minister that you will someday be...do you, _can you,_ believe in that, Linhardt?”

Linhardt felt tears begin to come to his eyes, and he furiously blinked them back, not allowing himself to make a fool of himself in front of his father. Father always had his best interests at heart; everybody told him so, and they would know. Yes, there was no doubt that Father would show him what he needed to do, and even though his earlier doubts about lies were still there, Father would surely show him what to do in time. He nodded. “Yes, Father. I believe in you and everything you can teach me. I promise I’ll make you proud!” 

Count Hevring’s face broke into a small smile, and he stood up, reaching down to pat Linhardt’s head. He could scarcely believe it; praise, a smile, and a pat? He would never, _ever_ forget this day now. “Good. Now come along; I will begin teaching you the verses that you will need to know, and then we shall go for luncheon.”

\---------------------------------------------  
After they ate, the Hevrings retired to the terrace for Linhardt’s violin practice. Enbarr was experiencing a lovely breezy day, a blessing of the Great Tree Moon, and the Countess requested that they all sit outside and enjoy the weather as Linhardt was tutored. To the shock of everyone, the Countess included, the Count also attended the luncheon; usually he holed himself up in his room doing work, but it seemed that today, he was in a good enough mood to eat with his family. Even more shocking than that, however, was that he continued to remain outside, watching and listening to Linhardt’s performance with an unreadable expression on his face. 

The Countess gave a polite cough, snapping open her fan. “Darling, I am so very grateful that you took time out of your day for this. Linhardt has been positively beaming ever since you returned from Faith training earlier.”

The Count nodded. “Yes. I was able to steer him back on the correct path; if he cannot believe in the Goddess, then he can believe in us, and that we are doing what is best for him as his parents.”

The Countess closed her eyes, giving a slight bow in her chair. “I bow to your wisdom, my husband. I have been giving my utmost effort in supervising his growth as a proper heir of Hevring, and with you taking charge of his Faith studies personally, I believe that we shall have nothing to worry about.”

The Count snorted, and the sound was so unexpected that the Countess blinked, scarcely believing such a sound had come from him. “Naturally. If he is performing as expected, then that is ideal. See to it that he continues to do so.” With that, the Count rose from his chair, and walked back inside, presumably to his office. The Countess sighed; the two of them held no love for each other, but he did not even pretend to keep up appearances of affection except when the situation called for it. Still, she held her tongue. She knew her place, and if all it took to continue enjoying this life of luxury and raising her own family's image was raising their son into a proper noble, then that was a duty she was more than willing to fulfill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow my writing [twitter!](https://twitter.com/Saringold_)


	3. Something to Believe In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt learns where Faith comes from and how to use it, meets a strange young boy, and makes a friend all by himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter!~ I hope that you all enjoy, as this explains some of my headcanons for Faith magic in much more detail :)

The week passed by in a blur, and the next Sunday found the Hevrings in their personal carriage, once again headed for the Cathedral of Enbarr. Linhardt was seated between his parents, trying not to pick at his itchy woolen socks and stuffy dress shirt. He had already managed to put a singular wrinkle into his church-appropriate dress clothes, which had led to his mother making a fuss and adjusting his outfit, causing his father to become annoyed at the disturbance, and the whole ruckus had culminated in a stern talking-to and the chill of absolute and icy silence. The thought sent a shiver throughout Linhardt’s body, and he reflexively dug his nails into his palms. This time, however, his mother saw it out of the corner of her eye, and brought her fan down with a sharp _whap_ upon his hand, a silent admonishment of his poor behavior. Linhardt forced his hands to relax, placing them on his knees, and with no other conversation forthcoming, retreated into the depths of his imagination, where there was nobody else to bother him and he could not bother anyone else. A scene from earlier in the week played out in his memory, repeating as it had been for the past several days in both his dreams and nightmares, the line indistinguishable when it came to this particular memory.

Linhardt had been practicing with his father in the gardens, a frustrated groan escaping him as light briefly flickered in his palm, then faded. Count Hevring sighed. “I cannot fault your memorization or pronunciation of the sacred verses; if nothing else, it is clear to me that your doubt in the goddess will prevent you from using this particular method of drawing out your faith. Very well; sit on the bench, and we shall go over the next lesson.”

Linhardt sat as instructed, doing his best not to slouch (Mother hated when he slouched, but he couldn't help it sometimes) as he waited for his father to begin. Count Hevring cleared his throat and wheeled over the chalkboard that had been present since that morning. “You see, Linhardt,” the Count began, “all magic requires two things: a source, and a component. The source, as you have already guessed, is what powers your magic. The component is what focuses and directs it, such that you can control it.” Linhardt watched as the Count took a small silver knife and brought over a fish from the pond, placing it on a table. Its scales gleamed, reflecting off of the knife in a dazzling display of color, when suddenly a bright splotch of crimson obscured the view and the fish went limp. The Count placed his hand over the fish’s body and murmured some words that Linhardt recognized as the Hevring family motto, _ut in omnibus._ A soft light emanated from Count Hevring’s palm, and Linhardt took a quick breath; the light seemed to dance along the Count’s fingertips, a sight that mesmerized him every time he saw it, and surrounded the fish until it began flopping around on the table once more with not even a scratch on it. The Count picked up the fish and tossed it back into the pond, where it landed with a loud splash and began swimming around, as carefree as ever. 

“As you can see, my component was my choice of words, which translates to ‘order in all things’ in our modern tongue. That is because those words serve as the best means of focusing my intangible source of Faith into a tangible effect. Do you follow, Linhardt?”

Linhardt nodded, pausing from where he had been drawing little circles on the bench with his finger. For some reason, doing that helped him concentrate, especially when he was trying so hard to pay attention but the lovely weather was tempting him into sleeping. He was about to hold his tongue and resume his finger-shaping when he suddenly remembered something that the bishop had said, and as Count Hevring had not yet resumed speaking, it was as good of a time as any to ask about it. “Father, the bishop said that to have strong Faith, one must believe in the Goddess. Your Faith magic is really strong, but you didn’t use a church verse; do you believe in the Goddess too?” The unspoken question of _Do you believe the Goddess is real_ hung in the air, as if waiting to be answered.

The Count turned to his heir and sighed. He fell silent, and Linhardt could only stare; his usually eloquent father rarely paused to consider his words to this extent, and Linhardt could only hope that this wasn’t a sign that the Count was angry. Bad things happened when the Count was angry. His worries were lessened, however, when the Count spoke again. “That is not so simple a question as you may believe, Linhardt. You see, Faith can come from many sources. While I do believe in the Goddess, my primary source of Faith can best be described as Hevring itself.”

Clasping his arms behind him, he looked beyond Linhardt, past the ponds and forget-me-nots surrounding the gardens, and back into his own mind, diving for a memory hidden under the waves of thought. “I inherited the mantle of Minister of Domestic Affairs from my father, who received the title from his own. I have not only governed this territory, but all of the clerks, the finances of the Empire, and the management of both are under my jurisdiction. I work tirelessly for the betterment of the Empire, a duty passed down through our line as assuredly as our Crest, and despite all of the trials and tribulations, the sacrifices required, I am proud of all that I have accomplished and what I will do in the future."

The Count tilted his head back, looking up toward the sky, and a small smile made its way to his face, the expression foreign on such a usually stern visage. "Thus, Linhardt, pride in myself, in the duties and responsibilities that I have been entrusted with from my forefathers, and in the Empire that I work so hard to sustain is the primary fuel of my faith. Faith is born from the spirit, the resonance of your own self with a concept or call, an idea or movement, a bond or being; even in times of hardship or trouble, when your mind screams in doubt and your heart worries for the future, your soul draws strength from what it knows to be true, a spark of light in the metaphorical darkness, and that is the basis of Faith.” 

He trailed off, and Linhardt could not bring himself to speak, could not interrupt the strange atmosphere that had befallen them. After a full minute of nothing but the breeze’s voice drifting through the trees, the Count turned and approached Linhardt, finally speaking once more. “It is alright if you do not understand all of my words now. But you must remember them so that when you do need them, they will not fail you." He gave Linhardt’s head a pat before refolding his arms behind him. “That’s enough for today, Linhardt. Run along back to the manor, now.”

Linhardt nodded, his head spinning with the sheer amount of new information he’d learned, and he headed back to the gate, a servant waiting to escort him back. His father was right in that he didn’t really understand everything he’d been taught, but maybe he wasn’t supposed to? He wasn’t quite sure, but what he did know was that this lesson in particular was one to commit to memory. Carefully, he snuck a look behind him at the lonely, pale column of a man that was his father, who was now staring down into one of the ponds with a serene yet detached expression, and not for the first time, Linhardt wondered if he too would look just as worn and tired one day.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After an indeterminable amount of time, the carriage came to a stop in front of the cathedral, and Linhardt was plucked from his reverie by the loud bustle of nobles and their servants filing into the church. 

The footman opened the carriage door for them, and Count Hevring got out, followed by Linhardt and his mother. Linhardt winced as the sunlight assaulted his eyes, and he brought a hand up to shield himself before his father’s angry _stop that_ forced his arm to retreat to his side. “Why am I here,” he muttered, but it seemed that the Goddess--if she WAS real--was not looking upon him very kindly today, as his father looked over with a scowl. 

“Because you are part of this family, whether you like it or not.”

Linhardt stared up at him, a pout threatening to form on his lips. "But Father, I had thought that I was no longer--" 

"Alternative arrangements have been made for you, but we still must go in as a family. This too contributes to image. Understood?" 

At that now too-familiar word, Linhardt held his tongue and nodded his head. Image. The more he heard it, the more he was coming to despise it. All an image was, according to his dictionary, was “the general impression that a person, organization, or product presents to the public.” In other words, it had to be neither real nor genuine, just convincing, and to Linhardt, that was a terribly labor-intensive lie to keep. Just thinking about it made him bored and restless, as though it were an itch he couldn’t scratch, but rather an idea tickling at his mind, and like it always wanted to do once he stopped caring about whatever or whoever it was he was listening to, his mind was ever so close to wandering off by itself to find something more interesting to ponder.

However, once they crossed the threshold of the cathedral, a servant of the house quickly escorted Linhardt out and around to the backyard of the building, which was apparently the "child care area." In other words, it was a temporary time out for the children who weren't allowed to go inside, but who also couldn't stay home for one reason or another. Linhardt quietly trudged along, utterly unimpressed. As if making him suffer the time and awkwardness to get here wasn’t enough, now he had to be _outside_ and dealing with other children? Unbelievable. 

His disinterest was soon quashed, however, by a panicked scream and a child’s laughter, bubbling across the backyard from high up in a tree. “Young master Bergliez! Please come down!” a servant called, her impeccably pressed blue and black livery greatly contrasting with her desperate demeanor as she wrung her hands frantically, head tilted back to watch her young charge. High up above, jovial peels of laughter tumbled down, the source of which seemed to be a blue-haired boy with at least two sticks poking out of his head, a scratch on his cheek that was only accentuated by the dirt on the rest of his face, and a madcap grin that reached all the way up to his sky-blue eyes, which were currently dead set on a cat that had gotten itself trapped in a tree.

Linhardt decided that this boy was by far the most interesting person out of everyone whose names and faces he could be bothered to remember.

The maid accompanying Linhardt gave a disapproving grimace, but made no move to help, instead releasing Linhardt and moving to stand over in the shadows of the building. On any other day, Linhardt would have joined her so that he could take a nap where it was cool, but today, something about the tree-climbing boy over there seemed to have caught his attention and held it fast. 

“Can’t come down, Etta! Not while the kitty’s still here!” a vigor-filled voice echoed, and Linhardt thought that this boy ought to be quite grateful that the church’s walls were made of a thick, sturdy stone; if he had actually interrupted the mass going on, _someone_ would be having to pay Bishop Herras a _great_ sum of money.

The kitty in question, clearly deciding that the continuous assault on its eardrums was far worse of a fate than heights, leapt off the branch nimbly and landed on its feet in the yard, racing off into the streets nearby. The boy blinked at it, and Linhardt could see the gears turning in his head as he stared at where the cat had gone, then the branch, like he couldn’t quite believe the progression of events from Point A to Point B. Linhardt could pinpoint the moment reality caught up with him, however, once he yelled “no, kitty! Come back!” and promptly let go of the tree to make grabby hands at the cat, causing him to fall straight down, his back crashing into the rock-solid earth below. “Owwww…” he mumbled, rubbing at the sore spot, and his maid gave a gasp before running over to him, frantically looking him over. Before he was completely conscious of it, Linhardt’s feet began to move, bringing him over to the shaking boy almost before his brain had caught up. Linhardt bent down to one knee (ignoring his own maid’s screeching about the mud now staining his pants) and put a hand on the boy’s back, pressing gently and ignoring the loud “Ehhhhhhh?!” coming from the patient in question. 

“Hold still,” he murmured, not quite sure where this sudden desire to help was coming from but grateful for it all the same. “I want to help.” Closing his eyes, Linhardt tried to speak the words of the Goddess, but unbidden memories of hours on end practicing and repeating those “words of power” and having little to show for it bubbled to his mind and the syllables tasted like ashes on his tongue. He paused for a moment, practically choking on his worry and unease. 

“Uh, hey,” the boy he was healing said tentatively, shattering Linhardt’s concentration as easily as a dinner plate falling to the bricks. He craned his neck, trying to look back at Linhardt. “It’s ok if you can’t help. I’ll be fine!” Linhardt looked up, meeting his gaze and seeing only… acceptance there. Huh. Far from his father’s stern, judging gaze or his mother’s firm, sometimes desperate look, this one’s eyes were clear, like he just appreciated that someone was putting in the effort at all. That clarity must have done something to Linhardt’s own heart, because he remembered now, and he closed his eyes once more, focusing on the words that had floated up to the top of his memory. _“Ut in omnibus,”_ he whispered, and a faint light flashed, illuminating the boy’s back before the light sank into him and after a moment, the dancing light faded from Linhardt’s fingertips. The boy didn’t move. Linhardt opened his eyes and pulled his hand away in frustration; the words seemed to work only marginally better than when he had used church verses, and something in him wondered if he really was cut out for Faith magic after all when suddenly, the incomprehensible boy before him sprang up, causing Linhardt to practically tumble backward in fright. 

“YAHOO!” he cheered, and he turned toward Linhardt, a huge smile on his face. “That was AMAZING! Are you a magic user? That was super duper cool!”

Linhardt blinked, slightly overwhelmed by the enthusiasm. “Erm, yes. Or at least, I’m training to become one.” 

“Training, huh? Yeah, I get that! I’m gonna become a super strong fighter, just like my dad! You don’t seem like much of a fighter, but I guess that’s why you’re a magic user. You’re cool though, unlike lots of other magic users I know! And you use Faith, right? So… wait, why aren’t you inside, then?”

Linhardt took a breath, trying to keep up with the rapid fire statements. Once he parsed the last question, however, a subtle look of hesitation flitted across his face. Should he tell this boy, whose name he didn’t even know, about his problem? Probably not, but… “I got in trouble for telling Bishop Herras that I don’t know if I believe in the Goddess.”

The words tumbled out seemingly of their own accord, and silence rang out across the backyard. The two maids’ eyes were wide, and they looked as though they were visibly restraining themselves from saying something. Linhardt wanted to duck his head in shame. He had said more than he should have again--

“Hey, that’s ok!” Once again, Linhardt was rescued from his suddenly swirling thoughts by that bright grin and clear gaze. “It’s hard to believe in some lady in the sky. I getcha! Here, if you need something to believe in… well, how about this?”

The boy crouched down in front of Linhardt, who still hadn’t stood up yet, and extended his pinky finger. “If you gotta have something to believe in to make your magic work, then I promise to be your friend, forever if you wanna!”

Linhardt looked from his finger to his face, mouth open in surprise. “I… you want to be my friend? But… why?”

The boy shrugged, not moving from what must have been a very uncomfortable position. “You helped me, so I wanna help you! Besides, there’s not many people who wanna talk to me, but when I was hurt, you came over to help right away! You seem like a nice guy, even if you are kinda gloomy-lookin’.”

“Y-young master!” the black-clad maid hissed from where she was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Linhardt’s, the two watching their conversation intently. “That’s quite rude!”

“Oh!” the boy grimaced, looking over his shoulder at her, then back to Linhardt with an expression reminiscent of that of a kicked puppy. “Real sorry about that! I didn’t mean--”

A slight chuckle filled the air, causing the boy, his maid, and Linhardt’s to stare at him like he’d lost his mind, and perhaps he had, considering the chuckling was coming from him. “You’re the type to speak bluntly about what’s on your mind, hm?”

“Well, yeah! I hate lying and liars!” the boy practically shouted, and despite the noise, something about how he said those seven words with such clarity and conviction caused Linhardt’s last doubt to crumble and fall away.

“Is that so… then in that case, I think we’ll get along just fine after all.” Linhardt laced his own pinky with the boy’s, curling their fingers together, and something inside of him loosened as a result, a knot that had been in place in his gut for what felt like an entire week now. “Now then, might I have the pleasure of learning my new friend’s name?”

“OH! Sorry I didn’t say so before,” the boy laughed, not letting go of Linhardt’s pinky. Somehow, this wasn’t as bothersome as Linhardt was sure it should have been. “My name’s Caspar! Caspar von Bergliez.”

 _Von Bergliez, huh…?_ Linhardt mused. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it in the moment, so he let it go. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Caspar. I am Linhardt von Hevring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is Count Hevring explaining all of this complicated-sounding stuff to a six-year old, you may ask? This way, he doesn't have to do it all again in flashbacks in later chapters.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow my writing [twitter!](https://twitter.com/Saringold_)


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